I am not sure why I still have an Iowa phone number. For a few weeks last year I was dating an Iowa State University cheerleader and at that time it made sense to have a cellphone from Ames, and even as I write that I shake my head and think, why, and I can’t for the life of me answer it. Still, I have the Iowa cellphone and the cheerleader was long ago dumped because I was too old and the cheerleader was too stupid. Case closed.
Still, the phone rings and my heart beats a little faster and without looking at the screen I answer. “Hello,” I say, breathlessly, hoping, with want and need and maybe a touch of love, and then I hear a familiar gravelly voice coming through.
“Well, hi there, this is Ron Paul callin’ again, please don’t hang up this time. I just want to talk to you and I know it’s after midnight, but I am alone in Des Moines and I am callin’ people who might want to caucus in January with me.”
“Ron, you are old enough to be my grandfather.”
“I know that, and you know that, obviously, cause you just said it, but I want you to know that I’m serious. Heck, that’s why I’m callin’. See, this country is off the rails. I think I’m the only serious candidate who can really get us back on track.”
“Wait, this is not phone sex?”
“Well, not really. Unless you find foreign policy sexy.”
“Was that a joke?”
“Kinda.”
I hung up on Ron Paul, again. He calls often, usually late at night, never for phone sex, and in some ways that is good, but mostly it is not. Mostly if you call on my Ames cellphone after midnight, it should be about phone sex. Why, just last Wednesday at 1AM my cellphone rang.
“Hello,” I said.
“It’s me, Marcus Bachmann.”
“Oh man, are you calling to tell me that if only I could find Jesus I’d be happier?”
“Not at all. What are you wearing?”
See? That’s how it’s done. That is exactly how it’s done. Not that dear sweet Marcus Bachmann won me over to the dark side, although with his nasty talk about sexy times in Minnesota and promises of some sort of leather cuffs and spankings, I am pretty sure he would be the best “first lady” this country has ever seen.
Lately my Ames cellphone has been ringing all the time. Sometimes it is sweet, because the desperation of the Republican presidential candidates can be down right adorable. Also, the psychosis of Newt Gingrich has been spectacular. A month ago Newt called and promised me one thousand dollars cash if I would show up to the caucus in January and support him. I laughed and hung up and a second later the phone rang. His whiney and drunken voice was outranged.
“You know what, fuck you, I can do this without you. I’m god damned Newt Gingrich, I was the god damn Speaker of the House, I don’t need you. What are you anyway, some doofus from Ames? What the hell? Why do I even bother with you fucking bozos? Hell, I only joined this circus to sell more books.” Then the phone went dead.
Then, somehow, Newt became the media darling and he was on top of the polls and about a week ago, I got this message in my voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, Newt, looking forward to seeing you in January and would welcome your continued support in my move to the White House, because it’s pretty obvious that is where I am heading.” If you viewed the polls two weeks ago, Newt’s inflated ego seemed to be well placed. Then everyone started paying attention and remembering Newt Gingrich is insane and the polls started to dip and last night, during the Monday Night Football game, an obvious high Newt Gingrich called me again.
“Hey, it’s Newt callin”
“I’m kind of watching the game.”
“Oh? What game?”
“Newt, you are so gay. Why are you calling this time?”
“Well, as you know, I could really use your support in the January caucus and I am reaching out to people who have shown an interest in my campaign.”
“But Newty, I have never shown an interest in your campaign.”
“But your number is in my recently called list.”
“Right, well, a couple of those were drunken calls, two were butt dials and one was a late night phone sex thing that was off the wall kinky.”
“That I can explain.”
“Don’t bother. Right now, Newt, I am officially undecided.”
“What would it take for you to caucus for Newt Gingrich?”
“If you were to drop your third wife right now and find a newer, hotter one tonight, marry her immediately, I’d think about it.”
“Seriously?”
I hung up. The former speaker can get desperate and it is never pretty. About a minute later I got yet another call from Rick Perry. It started like all calls from Rick Perry have started over the past few weeks. I don’t even get a chance to say hello.
“Who’s this?” The Texas governor spews, bewildered.
“Well, you called me, as you saying you don’t know?”
“Hell no, I don’t know. Why you calling me?”
“Governor Perry, I did not call you, you called me.”
“If I called you Mr. Smarty Pants, how do you know my name?”
“I have caller ID and you’ve called me every night for the last two weeks.”
“Now that ain’t true.”
“Is too.”
“Ain’t not.”
“Is too.”
“Ain’t not.”
We go on like that for a while and then I hang up. He is usually drunk or stoned or has just finished having a threesome with Newt Gingrich and his fifth wife. I get confused.
Yesterday at noon I got a call from rowdy Rick Santorum. He always starts his calls by apologizing for his last name and I accept that, then I ask him why he is still running for president.
“Have you seen my family?”
“Actually I have not.”
“I have over 12 children and at least one wife. It’s hell on earth. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife and the majority of my kids, but I can’t take it. I don’t have a job, I used to be a senator, but then the voters in Pennsylvania realized I was insane, now I don’t have any job skills, so when I am not running for president, I am at home with my wife and all those damn kids. You have any idea what that is like?”
“No, I do not.”
“It is hell on earth.”
“So you are running for president to get away from your family?”
“That and spend quality time with Marcus Bachmann.”
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